


Come L'Aria Mi Respirerai

by sleazyjanet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 04:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleazyjanet/pseuds/sleazyjanet
Summary: In a world where soulmates are mostly for humans, and angels and demons are meant to have their Lord's names, some angels and demons are special.Aziraphale has a demonic soulmark and makes it his life mission to find out what it means.





	Come L'Aria Mi Respirerai

**Author's Note:**

> hullo! it's my first gomens fic and i did it only because i'd feel bad if i didn't join the #gomensficweek2019 made by the msfc gc (shoutout to y'all, ily!!, signed, a rat)

One thing everyone is taught, from the beginning of time, is that the word written upon any possible part of your body is your soulmark, and, above all, it's the name of your soulmate. Of course, that information is limited, given the occasional two or even four names upon one's body, or the fact that a soulmate doesn't necessarily mean romantic partner. 

There are, after all, countless of people who simply don't feel romantic attraction at all, and even those whose soulmate's gender would not match, at all, the person's preferences. Such mishaps, confusing whether a person is a romantic or simply friendly soulmate have caused many griefs in the past.

But all of that, that's for humans. Even if an angel or a demon were to find scribbled on their body not the name of God or Lucifer, they would not be allowed to do anything with it.

Which is why when Aziraphale realizes the shape drawn upon his knee is a demonic symbol, and one he is not even able to understand, he simply puts it into a tight box in the back of his mind and tries to forget it. Of course, forced into the Garden of Eden as a Guardian and thrust into a conversation he wasn't sure happened of his own volition, he can't help but wonder and dream.

Because wouldn't it be splendid to understand the symbol, and know whose soul is linked to his as tightly?

Alas, as he says to the demon Crawly, it is all ineffable, and so is the symbol on his knee.

But in the years to come, he doesn't let it be ineffable. He argues that he simply can't, that ignorance is a sin and that the knowledge would alter nothing in his being, anyway, for he is an angel and anyone who's bound to be linked to him, will never, ever, come before God.

So he dives deep into his studies. At first it's simply by subtly getting closer to Crawly, gently probing him into giving any kind of information about the demonic language. When that comes to naught with the demon being either too vague or too enthusiastic about teaching him vulgar demonic words, he questions some angels, instead.

That's fruitless as well, as is to be expected.

He's over the moon when the humans begin not only writing in full upon their tablets, but also begin researching, much as he is, but with better results, the demonic languages.

It's in Alexandria, long after the flood in Mesopotamia, that had brought him and the demon much closer, protecting the kids under God's disapproving eye, that he admits to Crawly that he can read a full sentence in the demonic language, thanks to some humans teaching him everything, and oh, how smart the humans are, with their unlimited curiosity and their ability to poke where an angel cannot.

To be fully honest, Aziraphale can't recall who invites who, right after a feud between a wretched man and a noble, but they find themselves in what one would call a tavern, of sorts, drinking a beverage the humans possibly consider strongly alcoholic here. It does reach his brain, and muddles it all up. 

"I can now fully write 'I love thee, Lord'," he beams proudly at Crawly after two drinks or six.

The demon chuckles, though not unkindly. "Are you sure it's the same Lord as the one you're used to, angel?"

The smile dies at his lips and he falters. "Well, no. Truthfully— oh, dear, me. It's Sa-Satan, isn't it?"

"No, it's the archangel Michael." Aziraphale tilts one eyebrow up and forces the demon to sigh, stretching on the stool he's practically lying on. "Yes, it's Lucifer, the one and only." Then, he frowns. "Though with the amount of demons and angels we have up and down, are we sure it's the only Lucifer? There could be another, for all we know, couldn't there?"

"Uh," retorts Aziraphale smartly, and burps.

"Anyway, why are you so interested in the demonic language?" 

Ah, the dreaded question.

"Knowledge, of course," he bats his lashes innocently and chugs the rest of his beverage. 

Crawly observes him through narrowed lids. He spreads his legs almost temptingly, though the thought of it being a temptation confuses Aziraphale too much to fully understand why it would be one, then clicks his tongue harshly, as if coming to a conclusion. "Be careful not to seek too much knowledge. It can make you Fall."

With that, he leaves and Aziraphale is forced to think through his options alone, hugging his knees like a lonely orphan. In a way, he feels like one, though he can't elaborate why.

Continuing his pursuit of knowledge could result in his Fall. Can he consign himself to the darkness for such a tainted knowledge?

It takes only the burning of the library of Alexandria and the loss of nearly all the manuscripts about the demonic language for him to finally give up. After all, what's the point?

"What's the point?" he asks on repeat, his knees bloodied, the symbol itching and burning, begging him to stand up and leave the burning building. "What's the point?"

Bits and pieces of burned manuscripts, ashes and paper so thin it crumbles in his hands, falls upon his back and on white-blond hair. Wood flops before his knees, never hitting him. Smoke fills his humanly lungs lungs he vaguely recalls he doesn't need, and ignites him to flee, to leave it all. 

He does, when he's already lulled himself into a state of numbness, his thoughts muffled and his ears ringing. The fire scorches him, but he doesn't feel it. The fire can kill his body, but it won't, because it's only touching the manuscripts, and he can't understand why and it taunts him. So many of them, he weeps, and lets strong arms pull him away, away from the pain.

But the pain sussists.

Even when Crowley undresses him and cleans him up, cleans up his wounds, Aziraphale remains in his numb state, his watery eyes never fully resting on the equally scorched face of the demon. The demon's hands burn on his knee, but Aziraphale doesn't pay attention to it. After all, he is hurt. It should hurt.

It dawns on him only a few years later, when pulls his first breeches on his legs and ties them to cover his Effort, that the remaining bit of the symbol that sticks out of his breeches is a tail.

Frantically, he reveals the whole symbol and then his heart nearly stops. 

A snake. It's a snake. It's a snake and now that his mind focuses on it much more clearly, he realizes with a heavy heart it says Crawly. It's all swirly, all tail and almost no head, all twirled.

"But— Crowley," he covers the symbol with his hand and looks around himself, feeling very naked even with the breeches on, "he—he understands angelic language." He knows it. He knows it. Unlike me, a fool who can't comprehend the language of demons. He's Fallen, but his memories remain, don't they? "If he had my name on him," he notes sadly, "he'd know."

Next time he spots Crowley, he can't even bear to look him in the eye. The glasses help, though vaguely. In his heart, he knows, if the demon hasn't said anything, it's because he doesn't have his name on him, or doesn't want to have it. And if he doesn't want it, then what's the point?

Because soulmates are meant to be life partners, and who'd want a glutton angel as his friend? An angel nearly Fallen, and yet not enough to even be of one kind with Crowley. And surely, Crowley would prefer a demon, wouldn't he? One who can understand what it's like to be away from God's Grace.

Not that I'm closer to it, he thinks bitterly, then prays his penitence.

The following years, he tries to catch any moment the demon might show any interest in being life partners, friends, so to say. More than passerby companions of time. Friends.

And he can see them. All the moments that the demon proves that he's the only one who's been there for him always, the one who's always cared for him, protected him. So he pushes him, nudges him into giving him more attention. For he's greedy, and he needs more proof, more friendship, or signs thereof it. By the year 1000th after Christ's death, he even agrees to an Arrangement, just so he can spend more time with him.

He nudges Crowley into making Hamlet famous, to see if the demon cares enough for him to do it, and in Paris he nudges him into freeing him, albeit he could easily do it alone.

But yearning for a friendship doesn't come without issues, as is, for Heaven may not see everything, but it knows things it oughtn't to, and the idea of Crowley dying because they're unfortunate soulmates tightens a grip around his throat.

In 1862, he means to bring it up to Crowley, but then Crowley asks for Holy Water, and everything ends.

Well, not everything, but he is quite sure his own heart does stop. Fear tears at his heart and cold hands caress his back and squeeze his knee with the symbol.

Wasn't a soulmate a life partner? If Crowley were to end his life, he wouldn't be a life partner, would he?

It chokes up at him, the dread, the idea of a life without Crowley. It easily becomes reality the same year, with Crowley completely disappearing. Truthfully, Aziraphale can feel him, and he even writes reports for him, doee temptations for him, but the 19th century fully shows him what a life without Crowley is.

He throws himself into gentlemen's clubs, hooks up with a few. In a daze, he meets Oscar Wilde, then travels across the channel and meets Vincent Van Gogh as well, hoping to bring him hope. 

In 1932, his body burns nearly whole again as he steps into the fires to save books, once again, but this time there isn't a Crowley to stop him and that, the thought, the realization, makes him pull back. What's the point of breaking apart, if his friend, his soulmate, isn't there to mend it all back?

In 1941 his heart sings. There, in a church, new as a day, handsome as ever and jumping like a monkey, Crowley saves him. Saves his books.

With wide eyes and a gaping mouth, his heart skipping into a dance, he realizes the reason he yearns to be close to Crowley oh-so-much, is not because he wants to be his friend, not only. He years for more.

And yet. And yet. Crowley still doesn't do anything and despite the amount of times he comes near to it, the demon seems held back. 

Year after year, rejection after rejection — from one or the other, for they're stupid like that — they come to the end of the world, and then even that is over, and nothing happens. Neither an end, nor a beginning.

After they trick Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale decides — no more. 

He sets up a perfect situation and makes up no excuse at all, for it is never really needed, to call Crowley and invite to his library, and then when the demon is inside, he subtly nudges him into the backroom.

"Angel," mutters the demon after sitting on one of the couches, his legs pulled indecently one away from the other, like an opposite of a magnet though there must be a magnetic field to it all, for Aziraphale's eyes inmediately drop to the middle, then flicker away instantly in shame. "To what do I owe this invitation?"

Aziraphale looks down at his drink. "We need to talk, Crowley."

Someone chuckles, though Aziraphale isn't sure who. Then Crowley stands and grabs an unopened glass bottle of whiskey. "What about?" 

"Soulmates."

"Hoo," Crowley snorts and tips a glass towards Aziraphale. "We might need this, then. Do you want some?"

Reluctantly, Aziraphale agrees. His hand twitches when his skin comes to contact with Crowley's and he sighs into his glass, downing all of it in one go, unwilling to let his mind be sober under such circumstances.

"What do we need to discuss soulmates for?" Crowley is now once again sitting, so far from Aziraphale's reach, and it makes his soulmark burn. "They're more of a human thing, you know that, right?"

Aziraphale nods. "Right. But, not only."

"Not only," Crowley echoes. He refills their glasses again, though Aziraphale doesn't notice when. This time, the demon doesn't sit back down, propping himself against the table instead. "But even if it's not only humans, most demons have Lucifer's name on it, or some even still God's."

"Crowley," Aziraphale insists, emboldened by his third — third? — glass. "I know the technicalities. I'm not stupid. But, surely, you must know of exceptions."

Crowley nods. "I do. I know there are some. That some angels have… other angels' name instead of God's, and the same with demons."

"And some angels can have a demon's name, too," Aziraphale adds.

This makes the demon narrow his eyes. "Yessss," he nearly growls, eyeing the angel carefully. "But what are you getting at? Do you know any personally?"

The angel grunts. Stop pretending you don't know, he wants to scream. He wants to shake the demon until he spills all the truth. He wants to grab at his stupid red collar and—. He shakes his head, and realizes only too late that the demon takes it the wrong way. 

"Thought so," he says bitterly. "Well, what did you want to say about these soulmates, then?"

"Crowley, I wanted to talk about mine."

The demon's eyes widen and his throat tightens as he swallows. "Ah, Gabriel, is it?"

His voice is even, but his words are like poison.

"No, Crowley, it's—."

Crowley waves his hand. Something akin to regret flashes on his thin face as he pinches the bridge of his nose, where usually his glasses would lay upon. "No, please, whoever it is, spare me, please?"

Aziraphale splutters, twisting in his armchair. "Wha–why?"

"Because."

But it's not just because. The demon's slitted eyes beg for mercy, beg for the angel to let it go, to simply drop it. Not to utter any word, not one word at all. But Aziraphale is too clouded by his state to care, or perhaps simply too deep into the gutter to let Crowley kick him deeper into it. He needs a hand to reach out and pull him out.

Crowley's hand, he thinks.

So he stands and rests his thigh against Crowley's, propping against the table as well, a fourth glass already in his hand. "I have a name. A demonic name."

Crowley's eyes widen. "Demonic?" Then he backtracks, shaking his head. "That's why you did all the research?" Before Aziraphale can confirm, he nods. "That's why you brought it up. You want me to hook you up with some demon, eh?"

"Wh— no." Aziraphale nearly topples over in attempt to grab at Crowley's arm and give it a proper squeeze to make him see, and sobers up instantly and nearly unwillingly seeing the wretched look in Crowley's yellow eyes. "No. You know, dear boy, you're not daft. I don't think you are. Elsewise, I wouldn't have accepted you as my soulmate, so please do accept it."

"Repeat that, please?" The demonic eyes glare into his own like knives, and it makes Aziraphale shift uncomfortably, but he wants to discuss it, to make Crowley see.

Aziraphale gulps harshly. "I said you're my soulmate. An—and, I understand if you don't want me to be yours, though I understand my name is somewhere there, but—."

"Ssstop it. You're drunk," Crowley hisses."

"I'm not. And I truly do want you as my soulmate. Friend, or more. I'm all in, dear boy. And truly, I understand that you may not want it, but frankly, it's painful that you won't even admit that I am y—."

A hand clasping his own interrupts him. "I want it."

Aziraphale arches his eyebrows, his heartbeat speeding up at the prospect of it being true. He wants to hold back, a little, but can't seem to stop his weak, hopeful question. "You do?"

Crowley snorts. "Of course." He chuckles and smiles at the angel so wholeheartedly it loosens all the knots in Aziraphale's heart. "Of course I do. I've been dropping hints for millennia, of course I do. I love y– I mean— hmph."

His sentence is cut short by Aziraphale grabbing at the back of his neck and pulling him into a searing kiss. It burns, like endless jolts of electricity passing through every vibes of their beings until those jolts join and the cracking subsides into a soft buzz. It fills the air and topples over everything else. Aziraphale's symbol burns until it whitens and then blackens, searing into his skin as a painless tattoo.

When they part, everything's the same, and different. And everything settles into the right place.

"I love you, too, dear boy. I'd want nobody else to be my soulmate. Nobody else would be worthy."

"I'm not—," once again, Crowley is shut up by his angel, his parted lips allowing the angel to kiss him more properly.

"You're worthy," insists Aziraphale, confirming his words with another kiss, his hand now sliding to cup his demon's cheek lovingly. "You're worthy. Never ever think you aren't. Don't you dare."

Aziraphale sees it of course, feels it, trembling beneath him: Crowley's uncertainty. Why he pulled back in the years prior, always feeling inadequate. And he means to prove him how wrong it was. For he is beautiful, his demon, with his burning yellow eyes and his parted, reddened lips, and his hair askew. The angel's name seared into his skin, like a promise.

And so Aziraphale asks, "May I see it? My name?" and Crowley instantly obliges.

The dove like shape is on Crowley's back, it appears, blackened now, too. He gasps, tracing it with his finger tentatively. The demon shudders and melts under his touch, letting his head plop back which Aziraphale takes as a cue to lay his lips on the demon's once again.

With respective kisses on their symbols, and their lips locked, and limbs intertwined, they decide to name this the beginning of the rest of their lives. Which they must, of course, live together.

What would life be, after all, if one were to go missing?


End file.
